


He doesn't know time anymore

by Thei



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (although no names are mentioned), Fix-It, Gen, In a way, also season 3 ending speculation, can you call it a fix-it if it's still a bad situation?, nothing is stated outright but, oh well it's angsty but kinda hopeful i guess, schhh let me live!, season 3 spoilers kinda, you'll get the idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 23:27:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19486180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thei/pseuds/Thei
Summary: He doesn’t know how long time has passed since he woke up in this place.OrA different ending, a new beginning, or an an unknown length of time inbetween.





	He doesn't know time anymore

**Author's Note:**

> My fix-it theory #1: Billy is the American that is mentioned in the end scene of season 3.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he woke up in this place.

To be fair, he’s no longer in the place where he woke up. When he first woke up, he was strapped to a bed in a brightly lit room and his body felt as if it was on fire. There were people around him, speaking words he couldn’t understand – poking, prodding, _hurting_ him.

He didn’t remember, then, what had happened to him. All he knew was bright light and strange people and _painpainpain_. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know what was going on. He couldn’t even remember his own name. The only thing he knew was that there was something _wrong_ with him.

He didn’t know _what_ , though. Not yet.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, during that first time. It was a blessing when he didn’t have to be aware, and every time he was forced to open his eyes again, he screamed. In pain; with frustration; with helplessness.

For those first days, they wouldn’t even let him turn his head; leather straps across his forehead and between his teeth, muffling his screams. His tears ran down the sides of his face and into his hair when he blinked them away. They became a constant, and they never ran out, even if he was never given anything to drink.

There were needles in his arms though. He could feel them when he tried to move.

Sometimes, there was a blackness that wasn’t sleep – that felt too _compact_ to be just sleep – that he couldn’t bring himself to wake up from. At first, he hoped that it was death, but they always brought him back eventually.

And one of those times, he woke up somewhere else.

He woke up _here_ ; lying on a cot, _not_ strapped down. But when he tried to sit up, the pain was bad enough to almost make him throw up. When the feeling had passed, he carefully turned his head to look around.

His eyes had troubles focusing and his head was spinning, but the walls were brown. Carefully, _oh so carefully_ , he moved his arm – marveling over the fact that he _could_ – so his fingers touched the wall. It was cold and raspy. Metal.

It took him a while, but he eventually managed to pull himself up enough for him to be able to lean on the wall with one shoulder. Looking down on himself, he felt numb. His body was covered in bandages. A part of him wondered what they hid, but a larger part of him couldn’t be bothered to look. Didn’t want to know.

They gave him water, and food. He drank and ate with shaking hands, as soon as he had enough control over his limbs to move to the door, where they’d put it.

He threw it up again, the first time.

And the second.

But not the third.

Time passed, and the pain lessened. The wounds healed, and left scars that would stay with him until he died. The strange black marks all over his body faded, but didn’t disappear fully; he could feel them under his skin, his veins like rubber tubes.

He got stronger. His hands stopped shaking when he reached for the paper plate, for the plastic mug. He no longer stumbled when he walked from the cot to the bucket in the corner. He no longer fell when they walked into his cell and pushed him up against the wall.

He started to remember. Flashes of the life he’d had before this place. Most of it was bad enough to make him curl up in the corner, hugging his knees, but some of it –

– some of it wasn’t bad.

And through it all, he learned.

(He’s always been a fast learner.)

He learned not to look his captors in the eye when they entered his cell. He learned how to stand up facing the back wall, with his hands on the back of his head, when he heard the key in the lock. He learned that any kind of resistance was violently punished, once he’d become strong enough to withstand it.

He learned the words for _“come here”_ , _“sit”_ , _“eat”_ , _“drink”_ … and _“yes”_ , _“no”_ and _“please”_.

(They never used the last one, but they seemed to like it when _he_ did.)

Time ceased to exist. The lone lightbulb in the ceiling was always on, until one day when it went out. It was a long time in pitch black darkness before they came and changed it, or maybe it wasn’t long at all. (He was a shivering mess in the corner once they did, because – as it happened – apparently he wasn’t too comfortable in the dark.)

*

He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he woke up in this place.

The first time they took him from the cell, two men pulled him off the cot before he’d had a chance to stand up. They dragged him out through the door and down a corridor that was as run-down as his cell. The corridor continued for as long as he could see, but they didn’t walk very far; just into another room, bigger than his cell, where they strapped him to a chair.

They forced his head back and proceeded to shave his head. He knew better than to fight back against them, but the buzzing from the machine around his ears made him forget what he’d learned.

They threw him back in the cell a while later, head shaved and body bruised. He crawled into the corner and pulled up his knees as close to his body as he could manage. Ran his hand over his scalp, and felt hot tears run down his cheeks and into the beard that was covering his chin.

He didn’t remember having a beard, before.

He didn’t remember having anything but long hair, either.

The next time they took him from his cell, they returned to the room where they’d shaved him. Strapped him into the same chair.

Turned out, the shaved head was so they could attach metal things to his head, and hook them up to some kind of machine. They stuck a needle in the side of his neck, and it _hurt_ , and he screamed while they read their instruments and scribbled things on boards. When they dragged him back to his cell he spent what felt like an eternity shivering in the corne, shakily tracing the marks on his skin; _blackblackblack_ again, and burning as if they’d injected acid into his veins.

The third time they took him from the cell, he begged them not to.

 _“Please”_ , he said, in their language. _“Please, no.”_

But they did, anyway. This time, they took him down, down; deep into the belly of whatever facility they were at. They threw him in a cage, which was still bigger than his cell, and slammed the door shut in his face.

He didn’t understand what was happening, why they hadn’t strapped him down. A noise behind him made him turn around, and he watched – eyes widening – as some kind of creature crawled out through a hatch.

Its face opened up, revealing hundreds of sharp teeth, and he recoiled – suddenly remembering something _else_ with hundreds of teeth, something huge and monstrous, standing over him, roaring, clawed tentacles digging into his skin.

Almost absentmindedly, he touched the scars on his torso. Felt some kind of calm wash over him.

He didn’t know a lot of things, but he knew for certain that _this thing_ was not the worst thing he had faced. And he was still alive.

When it charged, he met it halfway.

Later, he was on the floor of the cage, stuttering and shaking. In the end, they’d had to shock him to get him off the creature. He saw it lying along the one wall, unmoving, and he could still hear the sound it made as he drove his bare foot into its body, again and again, relentlessly.

And even though he couldn’t really breathe, and even though he could feel where its claws tore open his skin, he smiled.

He didn’t remember smiling, before.

They took him back to his cell, after, and left him alone for a long time. But they left him with bandages, and clean water, and a plate that was more than half-full of food, so while he was riding out the effects of the electroshocks and running his hands over his black-veined arms, he figured he’d learned a new thing; he’d been punished for almost killing the creature, but fighting it – and _winning_ – had earned him a reward.

So the next time they came for him, that’s what he did.

*

He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he woke up in this place.

They leave him alone, for the most part. He spends most of the time on his cot, staring into the rusty metal wall, trying to keep from remembering, from hallucinating, from thinking at all.

He eats, he sleeps, he fights (only monsters, though – never people), he wins.

His skin is marked – by black veins, needle marks and scars – but he doesn’t mind. Tracing his skin keeps his fingers busy, keeps his mind busy. Keeps him from remembering, from hallucinating, from thinking at all.

He eats, he sleeps, he fights, he wins.

They poke him with needles, read their instruments and scribble on their boards. They don’t have to drag him anywhere; he goes willingly when they come for him.

They watch him warily, now. (They seem to like it when he says “please”. So he doesn’t. Not anymore.)

He doesn’t know a lot of things, but he knows for certain that this is not the worst thing he’s faced.

And he is still alive.


End file.
